


The Little Cricket on the Hearth

by thinlizzy2



Category: Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott
Genre: Gen, Sister-Sister Relationship, Sisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2019-11-21 10:57:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18141302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinlizzy2/pseuds/thinlizzy2
Summary: We are told at the end ofLittle Womenthat Amy learns through her daughter's illness that love alone cannot be enough to solve every problem.In helping her sister to cope with this lesson,  Meg in turn discovers that love - despite its limitations - is nonetheless surprisingly powerful.





	The Little Cricket on the Hearth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tablelamp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tablelamp/gifts).



The nursery was beautiful. 

 

It was well-situated in the handsome house, its' location selected to ensure plenty of light and fresh breezes. Amy and Laurie had spared no expense in setting it up. Little Bess slept on crisp linen sheets, swaddled in the softest lambswool in her intricately-carved oak cradle. A veritable army of silken stuffed animals with jewel-bright glass eyes stood guard over her fragile little body, and the very air that she breathed in was perfumed by the finest pure beeswax candles. And she wasn’t simply rich in money, either. Amy had poured all her her considerable creative energies into decorating for Bess. A jungle of painted vines twisted their way around the walls. Each color in their pastel blossoms was clearly selected, with foolish optimism, to provide joy and comfort to a little girl far too young to even know what flowers _were_ , let alone be soothed or delighted by them. 

 

It was her mother who needed the comfort. 

 

Meg hovered in the doorway for a brief moment, wondering if she should intrude. Being a mother herself, she knew that there was little or nothing that she could say that could bring Amy peace tonight. Laurie’s presence might have helped, but he was still in France and a letter was unlikely to reach him before he had already set out for home. Meg knew Amy still wanted to try though. Little Bess, never the strongest or most robust of babies, had been running a fever for three days now. Her tiny chest was frequently wracked with coughing as she tried to expel sickly fluid from her lungs. Even from where she stood, Meg could see the bright pink splotches of illness on her niece’s cheeks. Beside that expensive cradle stood Amy, the exhaustion in her voice evident as she sang gently snatches of lullabyes to her fussing daughter. Meg watched as her sister swayed on her feet, briefly overwhelmed by her despair, and that moment was enough to propel her forward. 

 

“Amy, dearest, you really must rest. You’ll do our Bess no good at all if you worry yourself into an early grave.” Meg was careful to keep her voice soft and tender; she knew by now that scolding was seldom what Amy needed. 

 

She doubted her sister even truly heard the words.

“I thought she was better last night.” Amy could hardly bear to take her eyes off her child for an instant. “She felt cooler to the touch and I could see that she slept more easily. But this morning she was hot again and I wonder if I only dreamed her well.” 

 

“Dreaming would require sleeping,” Meg remarked. “And I am certain you have done none of that.” Gently, she circled Amy’s shoulders with her arm, leading her sister towards the fine rocking chair that Laurie had purchased, months ago, for the soothing of a rambunctious, active child who never came. 

 

It was a measure of Amy’s exhaustion that she allowed herself to be led away from Bess at all, and Meg knew she wouldn’t stray from her daughter’s side for long. So she reached into the cradle and gathered up her niece, careful not to let the panic she felt at the child’s lightness and heat show on her face. She knelt at Amy’s side and placed her daughter safely in her arms. “So if you remember her rallying, then perhaps she did. Any break in an illness is a good sign, even a short one. It means the soul is still fighting to stay with the body, after all.” 

 

Amy traced the outline of Bess’s little mouth. For all her ill luck in her health, Elizabeth March Laurence was a remarkably pretty child. Her softly curling hair and her father’s dark eyes held the promise of great beauty, if she could live long enough to grow into it. Her tiny rosebud lips twitched at her mother’s touch, but did not open. “She would not suck this morning, and only took a little yesterday. The soul can fight all it likes, but if the body will not eat-” Amy broke off, unable to continue. She buried her face against her daughter’s soft neck. 

 

“Oh, Amy!” Meg gathered her youngest sister up in an embrace. “Little ones are stronger than we know. I remember when Demi fell down the cellar steps, and...” 

 

Meg trailed off. She had been terrified watching her son fall; it was true. Demi had bumped his head badly and had wept copiously for over an hour, but aside from a few bruises and a goose egg above his eye he had been well enough the next day. And the mention of her robust and rosy-cheeked boy, who had tripped and fallen while _running about_ suddenly felt viciously cruel. She could see the hurt in Amy’s eyes and longed desperately to snatch the words back out of the air, but fortunately her sister seemed to realize that she had meant no harm. 

 

And she had larger problems at the moment. 

 

“Meg? May I ask you a question?” Amy sounded uncertain, but her need for an answer seemed to force her to press on. “Do you think Laurie and I doomed her, when we named her?” Her voice cracked and broke. “Do you think she may be cursed?” 

 

It took Meg a moment to understand, and then she shuddered in horror. For Amy to be laying this guilt upon her own shoulders from the loving act of honoring poor lost Beth! Meg shook her head, firmly. 

 

“No. And think no more of it. If anything, you have ensured that her angel-auntie is paying her special care now, helping her fight in ways that we cannot see but Bessie can surely feel.” 

 

Meg remembered whispering tales of the angels to Amy when they had been small. She had never been much of a story-teller; that had largely been Jo’s domain. But she did know her Scripture, and when Amy had been unable to sleep Jo’s tales of derring-do and misadventures had been poor choices to lull her. So Meg had murmured gentle descriptions of fluffy clouds and feathered wings until her little sister’s eyes had drifted shut. 

 

A vision came to her then: Beth glowing with health and holiness, wrapping her wings tightly around baby Bess and keeping death at bay. Meg decided, in that moment, that it was a deliberate gift. She breathed a silent prayer of gratitude to whomever had sent it to her. Then she vowed, silent but solemn, to do what she could on Earth to help with the work her sister was surely trying in Heaven.

 

For the rest of the day, Meg helped Amy tend to their little patient. She soaked cotton strips in rosewater to cool her fever and showed Amy how to tenderly wash the dried sweat from her soft skin. Bess still would not nurse, but Meg mixed some goat’s milk with flour and the baby took a few drops of that; it seemed to help Amy to know that her daughter wasn’t suffering the pains of an empty belly on top of everything else. And finally, through a combination of pleading, appeals to logic and sheer luck, she managed to convince Amy that nothing disastrous would come as a result of her taking just a few hours to sleep and preserve her own health. 

 

Amy must have been even more tired than she let on, because a few moments after she crawled beneath the quilt she was already lost to sleep. Meg watched her breathe for a spell, saddened that even sleep could not entirely wipe the worry from her sister’s brow. Then she gently shut the door and tiptoed back towards the nursery. 

 

“Hello, little one.” Meg whispered, keeping her voice low to avoid disturbing either of the sleeping figures she loved so much. “Your mother is resting now, but she is dreaming of you recovering and growing strong.” She paused to adjust the lovely china dolls on the shelf, remembering Amy’s giddy joy at the thought of playing with them once her newborn was old enough. “I know it seems unlikely now. But you must understand, you come from a world of people who make unlikely things happen. Your parents, for example, grew up side by side, close as could be. And yet they had to sail separately across an ocean to fall in love, and so they made that happen.” She picked up a soft knitted blanket, remembering what it had felt like to lift the reassuring weight of her own children after wrapping them up safely. “And then they had to cross the world again to have you, so that I could hold you in my arms and try to make you well. And that came to pass as well. So you see, sweet Bess, the way is cleared for you. Follow in their lead, dear girl.” Meg bent over the crib and lifted Bess into her arms. “Do the impossible in the name of love.” 

 

It took her a moment to register the difference. Bess felt light still, but soft and pliant. The strain of illness was gone from her tiny limbs. Scarcely daring to believe it was true, Meg cuddled her niece close and felt her drawing smooth, easy breaths. Pressing her lips against the baby’s head, she found Bess to be cool and dry. Falling back into the rocking chair, Meg held the infant tightly – comfortably well, lost in her healthy sleep – and wondered if she was only imagining the sound of fluttering wings just out of sight.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tablelamp for the Wayback Exchange 2019.


End file.
